


Coming up for air

by aralias



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Anxiety, First Time, Handcuffs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Spoilers for Book 2: Wayward Son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 22:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20803736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: Intimacy is hard and both Simon and Baz have hang-ups that have prevented them from having sex in the past. But after the events of 'Wayward Son', they are at least willing to try again.





	Coming up for air

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, I do not in any way think that Simon can really shag himself better. But I'm sure Baz would be happy to try.

> _(Touching Baz is always good; it’d be easier if I could just touch him all the time. And kiss him. And not have to be kissed.) (I can’t explain how it’s different. Why kissing is easy, and being kissed is like being suffocated.)_
> 
> _\- Wayward Son, Chapter 39_

**SIMON**

Baz is handcuffed to the headboard of my bed.

He says he can’t get out, that the two sets of handcuffs (which are magic ones he stole from his aunt) are more than a match for his vampire strength, but I’m pretty sure the bed _isn’t_. It’s from Ikea. I think if Baz wanted to, he could tear the handcuffs right through the shitty plywood, but for now he isn’t doing that.

He’s still fully clothed, we both are. (I even still have my wings – I didn’t want to tell Penny why I didn’t want them and Baz hasn't mastered the angel spell yet.) But he’s on my bed, his arms stretched above his head, his soft dark hair spread out over my pillow, and his feet bare. And we are maybe going to have sex.

I really want to have sex. (With Baz - not just with anyone.) I really, _really _want to. I haven’t even touched him, but even looking at him, chained up like this, even looking at his _feet _(I’m not into feet, I don’t think, but Baz has really beautiful feet. Elegant), has me hard.

Baz is hard too – I took a peek at him, because I’m allowed to, that’s what we’re doing here. I can see the bulge of his erection very clearly in his jeans. So I know he wants this too.

It should be easy. We have the same goal. The same exact wish to snog and grope and grind against each other, and whatever else two blokes do together. It should be easy. But I’m really not sure I can go through with it. Even with Baz like this, even with him being patient. Even when I know he won’t be able to touch me or make me do anything I don’t want (even when I _want _him to do things to me), I just –

“Are you all right, Snow?” Baz asks gently. And I hate it. I hate that _Baz, _of all people, is having to make himself gentle and soft because I can't handle his real feelings. Baz isn’t soft. He shouldn’t have to be. Two years ago, at Christmas, after I kissed him in the middle of a burning forest, Baz yanked my cross necklace off me and grabbed my by the shoulders. He kissed me like I was worth staying alive for and like he desperately wanted to be alive so that we could keep kissing. And all those years before that, at Watford, he never once backed down from a fight.

“Do you want to let me go?” Baz says.

“No,” I say – too quickly. Which I can see Baz likes, although that doesn't make me feel any less stupid about all of this.

I just - I don't understand why I can't do this. I killed a dragon when I was eleven. I've saved the entire world. Several times. I should be able to get off with my boyfriend, who I’m in love with, without having a panic attack.

“Maybe––” I stop, but I know what I'm thinking. Maybe if he stopped looking at me. If I knew he didn’t have to witness how pathetic I’m being. “Can I blindfold you?”

Baz swallows and I remember too late that he doesn’t like the dark. Not after what happened with the numpties. I’m such an idiot. And I’m really a terrible boyfriend. I know it’s not just me who has issues – Baz was in a _coffin _for weeks. He shouldn’t even be letting me tie him up.

“Shit, sorry–– Forget that.”

“I could shut my eyes,” Baz suggests. “Would that be enough?”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just lets his eyelashes fall like he’s asleep. (Baz has beautiful eyelashes. Beautiful everything – that I’ve seen anyway.) It _is _better. Somehow.

I’ve kissed Baz while he’s asleep before. Just on the cheek. Or on the forehead – I don’t want to take advantage. When he falls asleep on the sofa during Bake Off and I can’t help myself. When he looks like this. (Except for the stiffy. And the handcuffs - that's all new.) When I know he won’t read anything into it because he won’t even know about it.

His chest is rising and falling, much faster than it does when he’s really asleep. But that’s fine. I don’t want him to really be asleep. I want him to feel me kissing him. To know how much I want him. Because I do – I want him more than ever.

I sit down on the bed, next to Baz’s outstretched arms. I try and pull my wings in so they won't stab him, but I know he feels the mattress dip with my weight, because he swallows. His eyelashes flicker, but don’t open. He’s got himself completely under control.

I can see he wishes he didn’t. That he wants to grab me and shove his tongue down my throat while his hands go everywhere. It’s all there – in the way his muscles tense when I touch him (just a light touch to his face, his perfect cheekbones). That freaked me out before, when we tried this last time. How confident he was, how much he knew what he wanted. And I thought, then, that he was just going to take it.

But it’s all right now – because whatever Baz wants to do, he isn’t doing any of it. He isn’t making me do anything. He’s just letting me take my time.

“Simon,” he says softly as I trace the edge of his lips with my fingertips. “Please––”

I don’t have to do anything, even though he’s asking for it. But I want to. I want to kiss him, as much as he wants me to kiss him. More, maybe.

So I do.

**BAZ**

I’m not sure whether I’m allowed to kiss back. Whether that will upset the delicate balance we seem to have worked out here, but I can’t _not _kiss Simon Snow if he’s willing to kiss me. I was barely able to stop kissing him when he hated me. I was barely able to stop for _eight years, _and now we're going out and he has his tongue in my mouth – of _course _I’m going to kiss him back.

It’s getting better between us (America and all the shit at Watford has been good for something, at least.) I’ve started staying the night again, by which I mean Simon's started to let me. Sometimes he falls asleep first and I curl myself around him without actually touching him. Sometimes I wake up to find his arm around me and pretend I’m still asleep.

I wasn’t sure about bringing up sex again, but I know Simon wants it. (Sometimes, when I wake up and he’s pulling me close with his arm, I can feel just how much he wants it digging into my back.) A few weeks ago, we got drunk together and almost managed it, but he freaked out as soon as I started trying to get into his jeans. Very much the same story as before. He’s fine as long as he's the one fondling me. As long as he’s in control.

Which is why I suggested this – even though BDSM really isn’t my scene. And I very much doubt it’s Simon’s. Anyway, it was worth a try.

I’d try anything, to be honest. Whatever it took.

Two slightly uncomfortable pairs of handcuffs, and being asked not to look at him when I want to, isn’t nearly as bad as my worst imaginings. Thus far, it’s positively enjoyable.

Simon’s leaning over me, gently moving his lips against mine, working his tongue inside my mouth. I’m kissing him back. I want more, obviously (I didn’t handcuff myself to a bed and put on silk boxer shorts for a snog and a solitary wank later back at my flat). But I could be very happy with this. It’s more than I thought I might get, if less than I want.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t want more. That I could be satisfied with whatever Simon gives me. Sometimes I tell myself I am, because I know I’m happy and I’m in love and he loves me and in some ways it _is_ enough.

But I’m also greedy. And he’s so ridiculously beautiful, and I can’t make myself not want him a normal, safe amount.

I feel Simon’s hand wandering over my chest. I can’t work out if he’s going to start undoing the buttons or go lower, slide over my jeans and the significant bulge therein. Both good options.

He doesn’t do either. The hand withdraws and I struggle not to feel too disappointed, even when he stops kissing me.

This was still a good try. A good baseline for future attempts.

“Um. I’m going to take your trousers off for you,” Simon’s voice says.

“Fine,” I say. Somehow (years of living in my family probably have something to do with it) it comes out sounding flat. Normal. Not like I’m having a full-on mental breakdown, in other words.

I feel Simon’s fingers unfasten the button on my jeans and tug the zip down. I have to help him get them off me by raising my hips (is that too sexual? I’m not sure – and I can’t look at him to check his reaction – but he keeps going) and eventually he pulls them off over my bare feet.

Now I’m in my boxers and a shirt. A nice shirt – and the boxers I wore specially. (The black picks up accents in the shirt. They look like they were chosen to go together, which of course they were.) (I can’t see what I look like, of course, but I hope Simon appreciates it because it’s always been for him.)

Simon returns to kissing me, although this time he _does _start to do undo the buttons on my shirt, while he’s doing it. Once he’s exposed the skin, he starts to rub his hand over my stomach, which is something he knows I love.

I _do_ love it, but I want him lower than that today. And it felt like he might manage it, earlier. It still does – so I have to take the risk.

I tilt my head to one side. Our lips slide apart. “Do you think you might take my pants off as well, Snow?”

I hear Simon swallow. I can practically smell him doing it. I really hope I haven’t overplayed my hand, but then I feel him dig his fingertips under the top of the elastic.

“Okay.”

I raise my hips again and let him slide the silk off me. His heartrate has definitely sped up, I can hear it pattering in his throat, but he doesn’t say anything.

I know he must be looking at my cock, which is shamelessly hard and probably damp, and my balls and as much of my arse as he can see at this angle. At all the bits of me that are very obviously different from Agatha Wellbelove. (Not that I think he ever got this far with Wellbelove. I think I’d know about it, if he had.)

I think about saying something flippant – _Like what you see?_ – but I know I couldn’t bear it if he said no. So I just wait.

I don’t think he’s horrified. That’s not how his breath sounds. I think he’s just taking it all in. Adjusting to this new stage in our lives. I think this is a turning point. 

“Wow,” he says. And I can tell he means it. 

I grin. “Like what you see?” (Yes, I’m an arrogant twat; I can’t help myself.)

“Fuck off.”

Which means _Fuck yes _in Simon language. Thank Snakes.

I shift a little on the bed – if he asks I’ll say I’m trying to get comfortable, but what I’m actually doing is trying to bring my body into contact with wherever he’s sitting. It really doesn’t work, though. The bed rises as Simon gets to his feet again and walks away. I hear something thump to the floor, but I can’t tell what it is.

“_Snow_?”

I hate how needy my voice sounds, but Crowley, I _am _needy. Especially for him. If Simon hasn’t realised that by now, he hasn’t been paying attention.

A surprising kiss hits the edge of my lips – I don’t react fast enough to catch it.

“Sorry,” Simon says huskily. “I just needed to be more naked.”

I hear a horrible, embarrassing whine escape my throat at this information.

You’d think I’d be used to how unfair life is, but sometimes it really is a complete bitch.

He’s naked. And we’re in bed together. And he’s my boyfriend. And for some idiotic reason, I promised _I wouldn’t look at him_.

My fifteen-year-old self is screaming at me to break the deal, that Simon won’t mind. I wish I had accepted the blindfold. Then at least, it wouldn’t matter if I fucked up and opened my eyes, I wouldn’t be able to see him anyway. Now I’m stuck knowing I could look at him, that it's possible, but that I can’t actually do it. Because I said I wouldn’t. And because Simon’s trust means more to me than the sight of his arse. (Although I don’t mind saying, it’s a close thing.)

I just about stop myself whining again when he stretches out on top of me.

Possibly it helps, that I thought something like this would happen. I was prepared. I was prepared for Simon’s warm skin over mine, for his weight pressing down on me, for the fucking tail to wrap around my leg, for delicious wonderful pressure on my cock at last and for that pressure to be Simon Snow’s hip. I even expected I might feel something hard and wet digging into my skin and that I’d know it was Simon’s cock and that he wanted me.

I was prepared for all of these things to happen, but when it actually happens it’s so much more overwhelmingly _good _than I imagined (and I imagined it would feel really good) that for a moment I can’t breathe. (That’s really why I don’t make a noise – it’s not my incredible self-control, it’s that I’m too blissed out to remember I need oxygen as well as Simon.)

“Is this all right?” Simon says nervously, close to my ear.

“_Yes_, it’s all right,” I snarl – too rabidly, too desperately. He pulls away. I feel like crying. I didn’t want to scare him off. “_Simon_––”

And then his lips brush my chest, near my collar bone. 

“It’s all right,” Simon’s voice says from lower down now. I’m not sure whether he’s trying to calm himself down, or me, or whether he’s just repeating what I said so that he believes it. Whatever it is, I try and relax again. Because it _is _all right. We can do this. We _are, _in fact, doing this. We’ve never got this far before.

He kisses me again, just below one of my nipples. And then on my ribcage. And my stomach. He spends a lot of time around my bellybutton. (I wonder if he’s trying to kiss the scars that have almost entirely faded now.) (I’m not going to ask – I don’t care that much.) Then a quick kiss on my hip that breaks my no-whining policy, and then he’s back up at the head of the bed, hot breath against my neck.

“Can I touch you?”

“You know you can,” I tell him.

Which isn’t what I mean at all.

What I mean is that I want him to touch me more than anything. That I’ve wanted it for almost a decade and that I didn’t think I could ever want it more than I wanted it yesterday, but now I’ve got his warm thighs pressed against mine, and his chest against my side, and he’s asking me for permission in a quiet, choked voice that sounds like he’s only just holding it together. Like he’s as desperate as I am. He wants to touch me. He’s asking me.

Now, I think that I was lucky, yesterday. And that I knew nothing about wanting.

**SIMON**

I’m going to do it. I’m going to touch Baz’s cock.

Baz's cock is beautiful (I was right about that), just like the rest of him. Elegant, like his feet. Although I don’t want to put his feet in my mouth and suck on them, and I've been thinking about sucking Baz's cock for years. (I’ve always liked putting things in my mouth, not just food. I chew through pens constantly. And sometimes I bite on my wand – it must have driven Baz crazy to watch me.)

But right now, I don’t want to leave him. I want to be close to his face where I can see how I’m making him feel (Baz has such an expressive face. I almost came just from looking at him earlier. And listening to him.) And, of course, while I’m here, I can see he’s still got his eyes shut. That he’s not going to try and break his promise.

I roll off him (a bit – not far) and wrap my hand around his cock, using the same grip I’d use on a sword. (Is this right? I really have no idea.) Baz is biting his lip, not moving. (Does that mean he likes it?) His cock is warmer than the rest of him, although still colder than my hand. It’s damp at the tip but not as wet as I’d like. I don’t want to chafe him. I want him to enjoy it. To let me do this again. (I could definitely do it better next time, I've already got plans.)

I let him go for a moment, bring my hand up to my mouth and lick it. Then I wrap my hand back around Baz (slightly different grip this time) and give him a long, hard stroke right to the head.

He jerks against the handcuffs. (They hold.) “_Simon_.”

“Sorry, I don’t really know what to do.”

“You’re doing fine,” Baz says. His voice is high and choked and so ridiculously lovely that I have to kiss him.

He’s moaning into my mouth as I stroke him off; I’m moaning too, even though I’m just pressing myself against Baz’s leg and he isn’t even touching me. I can feel my wings trying to unfurl and I let them because it hurts to hold back. They clatter and swoop, like a sail hitting the wind. Baz jerks again at the sound, into my mouth.

Merlin, now I have to look at him, even though kissing him is amazing. I have to see him coming apart.

I lean back so I can see Baz’s head pressed into the pillow, his open mouth, his fists clenched in the handcuffs and the strain in his muscles.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” I tell him. 

Baz laughs breathlessly. “That’s my line.”

I’m laughing too. “You’re not even looking at me.”

“I have a very good imagination.”

Baz’s eyes are gorgeous. Grey mixed with green. The colour of the night sky over water. The colour of smoke. I think I fell in love with his eyes first. The way they always seemed so sad even though he was smirking.

“Please look at me,” I say – and he does it. Immediately. No questions asked, like he was just waiting for me to ask him.

I see him see the wings and then quickly glance downwards, down my body, at where I’ve got my hand around his cock and my tail round his leg. I see him see my cock (his mouth almost fills with teeth before he pulls them back – which is creepy, but also quite nice, given my reaction to seeing him.)

Then he’s looking back into my eyes with his grey ones.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he whispers. And I know he means it. And that I’m not frightened that he means it, and I’m not frightened that he might change his mind. Right now, it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

I lean back down again and kiss him and Baz kisses me back, less and less steadily as I keep jerking him off. I’m getting less steady too, because I’ve worked out how I can move my hand on Baz _and _my hips against his leg at the same time and I’m feeling pretty close to the edge myself. Eventually I have to stop kissing completely, and just press my face into Baz’s neck while I try and get us both through this. I feel dizzy from lack of air. And I can’t help but think Baz would have done this better for both of us if I’d let him take control.

“Fuck, _fuck – _I need to touch you,” Baz gasps and it’s almost funny now. Because we _are _touching. Almost everywhere. I have my whole body pressed against his whole body. There’s hardly anywhere we _aren’t _touching.

“Just hold on, darling,” I tell him breathlessly, taking the piss a bit. “You’re almost there.”

I think Baz is going to cry when I say that. Then I realise I was just more right than I realised, because his whole body tenses and he comes right over my hand. Wood creaks and snaps – and one of Baz’s hands is suddenly free. His left hand, his stronger hand. I guess he couldn’t stop himself at the end.

“Sorry,” he says desperately. “Sorry. Fuck. I’ll pay for a new bed. And I won’t touch you––”

“Baz,” I kiss him to stop him freaking out, and because I really want to kiss him, “please–– I mean, you can. I want you to. Touch me. I’m so close.”

He still isn’t moving, so I take his hand (it’s still in the vampire-proof handcuff, so I guess Fiona doesn’t need her money back) (although she might still want to after what we’ve done with them) and draw it downwards. I help him close his fingers around my cock and then I leave him to it.

“Simon,” Baz breathes as I whimper into his neck. (It’s so good. Was this what it was like for him?) I want to come, but I don’t want it to stop. If I stop, if it’s over, then I might not be able to do it again. (I'm not worried about Baz, but I am worried about me. He's not the complete fuck-up in this relationship.)

“_Simon_,” Baz says again. “You’re all right. It’s fine. You’ve got this.”

I’ve had plenty of orgasms before. On my own. Mostly while thinking about Baz and the way his hair falls over his face (it’s not doing it right now, since he’s lying down – although some of it is _sticking_ to his face because I think I probably sweated on him) and the way his thighs look in his football gear. I think I probably jerked off to the idea of Baz even before I knew I liked him. I just didn’t think about what I was doing. (I figured it was adrenalin. That I’d get hard because I was angry.) (I know. How thick can you get?) The last time I whacked one out was just this morning. In the shower – because I knew Baz was coming over, and I didn’t want to spend what should have been a nice afternoon thinking about sucking him off and feeling guilty about not doing it.

This feels a lot like that. Like those other orgasms. It’s just a hand-job – but it also doesn’t feel anything like that. Because I’m lying on Baz, because I can feel him breathing against me, because it was _his hand_, not just my own.

Once it's over, Baz lets go of my cock and wraps his free arm around my waist under my wings.

“Fuck,” I say. “That was––”

“Yes, it was,” Baz says, agreeing with me, even though I don’t know what I was going to say. That was good. That was amazing. That was easy. That was _sex. _We had _sex_.

Anyway, he’s right.

He’s looking down at me and smiling. I’m smiling, too.

And I feel like I can breathe again.


End file.
